Opinion pieces, travel articles, places and people; lots of poetry; commentary on current events and history and whatever else shows up on the radar. Articles have been numbered (since Sept. 2004). Go n-eiri an t-adh leat.

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt

Holy fuckin Jaysus, here am I in Jerusalem,
dragged out from the dripping tunnels below
with nary a penny to my name. Mazeltov,
says some hairy beaming Jewish gentleman
as he wields a large and rusty Turkish scimitar.
Your most devoted, says I, bending the knee,
I am on an archaeological quest, I am a man of science,
and I greatly fear my poor servant has perished …
Not in the least, a miracle, he is alive, alive!
God Almighty, so he is. My misery is complete!
There he sits, beaming, fackinellmytethortuwozagonner!
I smile weakly, what will I tell O’Sullivan? I collapse.

Days later, on a diet of locusts and honey, I revive
and review the circumstances. Our secret mission
to undermine, to betray these hirsute Hebrews has failed,
and I turn to a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.
Eat, eat, eat, cries Rachel, the moustachioed burly mother
of Nathan, the man of the ancient Turkish sword. You are
most kind, says I, lapping it up like a kitten. Just imagine,
she chortles, a man of science in these unsettled days!
Haha, I agree, reaching for my spectacles which I cannot find,
then my bruised and bursting head, still, Thank God, on my shoulders.
You are most kind, dear lady, I murmur, most kind indeed,
but I realise my rapier and pistol are no longer to be seen.

As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting
with your Ring-Dumma-Doo-Dumma-Da, no chicken soup
in those easy breezy days. Eat, eat, says the urgent Rachel.
I slurped it to the dregs, (mmm, lovely!) reconsidering my situation.
I was a spy, let’s face it, more or less caught in the act,
under the orders of the sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent,
to whom God should take a spanner, the only living man who could
cause me to shiver more than the murderous Shane O’Neill.
Shane was far far away and gone from the present shenanigans,
thanks be to God, Saint Patrick, and their respective holy mothers:
I never want to behold those mad light eyes again!

A shudder ran through me. You can’t help that thinking of Shane,
and doesn’t the oul wan, Rachel, run up to me with arms outstretched,
poor poor little boy, you are cold, knocking me over with her bosoms,
when Nathan pops in the door, all very bright and cheery: Konbor!
which is what they do be calling me, God bless their little brains,
I have with me your loyal servant, he is so so worried about you!
and in walks Bert, the shifty-eyed blackmailer, the bold rapparee,Appytaseeyerinthepink , says he, reporting for duty, Sahh! We ogle,
if such a thing can be said, one another. Orrlbleedindeadthebleedinbloighters,
he remarks complacently. So much for the men. Orlbutyouandme. Sahh!
Very good, sergeant, see to my kit would you? Orlloikefackingorninnit?
What? I beg your pardon! Fackingorninnit? Just you and me, sah. Sahh!

Oh, God … (to be continued)

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* There are no friends like old friends.
They are the ones to bring you love and sadness.

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Why bother? It's a bit of a story, that's why, and both Mr Dickens and Mr Thackeray have departed this world. A pair of Englishmen, to be sure, no fault of their own, but stories like theirs still need to be told.

Friday, February 10, 2012

My life is in your hands, she said,
and my first ignoble thought, forgive me,
was why was she saying this?

We’d only known each other three weeks
and she was a cute lovely girl and all that
but we hadn’t, umm, you know … done anything?

My father comes from the old country, she said,
and he is so strict. My mother, she is worse!
My older brothers, Daoad and Amir,
they always always beat up my boyfriends
and I hate them! But with you I feel good.

Me, I wasn’t feeling ecstatic at this news,
for I had had a glimpse of Daoad and Amir,
those hairy gorillas, and could only imagine
what the father was like. Never mind the mother.

Ehh, do you have any sisters, says I, to move
this dreadful family saga along. Oh, she dead.
She betrayed my cousin so my uncle kill her.

Oh, really?
Yah, my father he must apologise.
Anyway, you kiss me now?

My lips for some reason ran dry,
some temporary saliva failing, and I
took a rather quick look around …

O God! Is that Daoad (or Amir) outside
looking in the window? No, a shadow.
I’m starting to have feelings about shadows.

Look, Zaynab, I really like you a lot …
I know. I am a treasure. Many boys want me.
But you, you don’t only want my body,
you love my mind. I like that in you.

Ah, of course. To be sure.

I like you, you are Irish boy, Irish boys
are strong and brave, good lovers.
I dart a glance again at the window.

O God, that’s him!
doubt without a Daoud,
no, I mean … emm, I need to visit the gents!

Of course, my dear. Don’t be long.
Where is the back door? Unseen by me,
Amir arrives, smiles at his sister,
and picks up my half-finished pint of beer.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

Perhaps a coupla hundred contacts
on Facebook, then, as if you could tell
who or what the hell. Might know, see,
37 of these people, but as for the rest,
they pop up as a constant surprise.
Could be for the best, this ebb and flow,
day to day before your eyes, as through
anew this jagged world you come and go:
try not to be cruel, try to be kind!
Wannabe friends? Oh, I don't mind.
So ... that's how you collect all these
stunningly gorgeous Japanese women
(well, according to their own photographs)
who ding on you but don't have to meet you??
Telecomputers become their social tool
which for them is ... so exactly cool,
it tickles their feminine mystique:
don't touch, don't see, don't speak!
Look, look at them on the trains and buses
tap-tap-tapping with polished nails,
having a great time altogether! I think
if smartphones had a disposable stiff extension
for discreet use, say, in a shopping mall
(come on Samsung, come on Apple!)
there'd be no further need for marriage,
no further need for lads at all.